Dean leans against the Impala, dangerous smirk stretched across his face like he’s already won, because you’re dressed to kill. Tight black dress that clings in all the right places, lips painted blood-red, heels high enough to make men stutter when you walk by. “You sure they’re ready for me?” you ask.

Dean chuckles, slow and low, the sound rough in his throat. “They’re not. But that’s the fun part.”

“Guess I’ll have to play dumb until it’s time to bleed ‘em dry.”

He glances at you from the driver’s seat, eyes full of mischief and pride. “Play it real good, sweetheart. These guys don’t think with their brains. They see a woman at the table, they’re already blind. You just gotta play the part: the pet. Quiet, pretty, doesn’t talk unless her man says so.”

“You wish.” You say giving him a light push. And he laughs.

The backroom of the club is everything you expected: smoke, dim lights, and men who reek of bad decisions and entitlement. They barely blink at you as you cling to Dean’s side, hand on his arm, head on his shoulder like a good little accessory. He gives out the fake persona’s feeding up the rich men with lies. And then you let him purposely lose a game or two before asking if you could have a go cause you’re bored.

You feel their eyes trailing down your legs. One lingers too long at your chest. Another licks his lips.

Perfect.

“Hey, baby,” you coo, batting your lashes at Dean, your voice pitched up sweet and slow, “is this the game where I always lose my clothes? ‘Cause last time I forgot how the cards work and suddenly I was naked…” You giggle flirty, before bending over just a bit so the men could see down your dress. One of the men coughs on his drink. Another grins wide. “Damn.”

Dean just smirks like he’s the king of the room. “She’s lucky we’re in public,” he says, dragging a thumb across your cheek like you’re his prize. “And I’m one lucky bastard when she plays with her hands.” You let them laugh. You even blush like you don’t know what’s coming.